This Is Where I Leave You

one myself, continuing to put all my energies into falling out of love with Jen. And yet ...Penny’s clear skin practically glows on the ice, and the piles of hair pouring out from beneath her cap fly behind her as she glides beside me, and there’s something perfectly pretty about her. I watch her profile from the corner of my eye, her slightly bent nose, her sculpted cheekbones, her big hopeful eyes that always seem seconds away from welling up. If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting...
    “You want to hold hands?”
    I look to see if she’s joking. She’s not. I consider telling Penny about the baby, but something stops me. I’d like to say it’s just my not having adjusted to the reality yet, but the truThis probably a good deal more self-serving than that. I take her hand and we skate through the rotating constellations. Her hand is in a black knit glove and mine is a cold, raw claw. I can barely feel her. I could be holding on to anything. 12:55 p.m.
    A fat guy with a walrus mustache and a jingling key ring shows up to open the rink for business. He waves to Penny, then disappears into a back room. A moment later the music stops, the lights come back on, and the stars disappear. As if by some unspoken agreement, Penny and I let go of each other. There will be no handholding under the harsh fluorescent lights. Walrus man reappears driving a beat-up Zamboni onto the ice.
    “You know what would be nice?” Penny says as we step off .
    “What’s that?”
    She considers me for a long moment. “Never mind, I withdraw.”
    “Come on. What were you going to say?”
    “The moment’s passed.” She smiles and shrugs. I use my fi nger to free a thin strand of her hair where it’s gotten caught in her mouth.
    “Thanks for the skate,” I say. “I needed that.”
    “I’m glad you came by,” she says.
    One or both of us may be lying.

    1:00 p.m.
    Penny is teaching her first lesson of the day, and Phillip is late, naturally. I sit on a bench in the parking lot, watching the other skating instructors show up, slender women in baby T’s and black leggings that leave nothing to the imagination. They greet each other with waves and laughs. Their bodies, like Penny’s, are lithe and toned, and they walk with a graceful athleticism as they make their way inside. I suck in my gut and return their perfunctory smiles as they pass, trying for all the world to look like a guy who isn’t checking them out, even though, in their skintight leggings, you could spot those asses across a football field. 1:35 p.m.
    Phillip drives us back home, somewhat more subdued than earlier. The convertible top is down, and the afternoon sun is hitting us hard, burning off the lingering chill of the ice rink. He pulls up in front of the house and we sit there for a moment, steeling ourselves to go back inside. “If we didn’t live on a dead end, I’d probably just keep on driving,” he says.
    “I know the feeling, little brother. But your problems will just follow you.”
    “I don’t know, this is a pretty fast car. How was the ice rink?”
    “It was a little strange, actually. How was your mystery errand?”
    “No mystery,” Phillip says. “I just needed some alone time to clear my head.”
    “And is it clear now?”
    “No. That was just a figure of speech.”
    We smile sadly at each other. For some reason sitting here with my little brother, it suddenly occurs to me that we will never see our father again, and I feel a crushing desolation deep in my belly. We used to do this ventriloquist/dummy act for Dad. Phillip would sit on my lap and while I was trying to do the routine, he would suddenly spin and kiss my cheek, and then I’d yell at him and he’d say “sorry” in this high, hoarse cartoon voice, and Dad would laugh until his face turned purple. We didn’t know why he found it so funny, but we relished the ability to make him laugh, and so we did it at every possible opportunity. And then, at some point, we didn’t do it anymore. Maybe Dad stopped finding it funny, maybe I decided I was too old for it, maybe Phillip lost interest. You never know when it will be the last time you’ll see your father, or kiss your wife, or play with your little brother, but there’s always a last time. If you could remember every last time, you’d never stop grieving.
    “Phillip,” I say.
    “Yeah.”
    “Your T-shirt is inside out.”
    “What? Shit.” He pulls it up over his head. “I must have been wearing it